


7 Minutes in Heaven and 7 in Hell

by sunflowerprince



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Halloween, Holiday, Kissing, Multi, No beta we die like archival assistants, The Flesh - Freeform, and not so platonic, everyone loves halloween but jon, just good spooky fun, platonic, suspend your disbelief up on a tightrope my guys, this is indulgent and I do not apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerprince/pseuds/sunflowerprince
Summary: It's Halloween at the Archives and Jonathan Sims is not amused.Jon has never liked Halloween since he was a kid, and he lives ghost stories every day, so it all feels a bit redundant. His assistants disagree. He grimaces and bears it until the power goes out and everything looks a bit different in the dark.Or, how everyone plays 7 Minutes in Heaven and Jon is marked by the Flesh.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 158





	7 Minutes in Heaven and 7 in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out as a writer you can just, uh, write anything you want and unleash it upon the world like so many krakens. So here is the fun spooky mess that has been on my heart. 
> 
> CW: body horror, kissing, darkness, mild hazing. Be safe be well <3

“Stop where you are, sir, this is the Halloween Police.” 

“Tim, you are being ridiculous, let me aside.”

“No can do, boss-man.” Tim affected a faux-apologetic tone. He fiddled with the tip of one sharp canine with his tongue. “This is a designated Halloween zone and I need you to be at least three shades spookier before you are allowed entrance. Right, Sasha?”

“It’s true.” Sasha called back. All Jon could see was the tip of a pointed hat behind her computer. She leaned away from her desk, and the entirety of the wide-brimmed witch’s hat complete with onyx satin ribbon dipped into view. “Only goblins and ghouls allowed on staff today.”

“Elias!” Jon called out in exasperation as his willowy boss rounded the corner. Tim held a soft but firm hand out to stop him from striding by.

“Jonathan?” Elias barely paused in his step.

“Will you please reign in your circus?”

The corner of Elias’s mouth ticked up. “I believe you’re the ringmaster of the archive, Archivist. You deal with the rabble. Besides, you heard Ms. James. Goblins and ghouls.” He held up his orange satin tie and continued down the hallway, presumably to his office. There was a glint in his eye that bordered mischievous and downright sinister.

Jon looked back at Tim, jaw hanging, as Tim looked back, one eyebrow quirked paired with a self-satisfied grin.

“This is highly unprofessional.” Jon grumbled. “I don’t have anything on hand and I refuse to go home to accommodate whatever shared fever dream you are all entertaining.”

“It’s called ‘fun,’ Jonathan. I know you’re allergic, but take a Benadryl and let us have ours.” 

Sasha sighed and sauntered away from her desk. Her black dress swished in time with her steps, her emerald billowing sleeves rustling against her sides.

“It’s not in my nature, but I’ll take pity on you.” 

“What is that?” Jon asked warily, spotting the thin black tube in her hand.

“Your costume.” She uncapped the tube, brandishing the eyeliner pencil like a wand.

“What do you think you’re doing with that?” He asked nervously as she approached with raised arm.

“A magic spell. A transformation. Now be grown about it and hold still.”

Jon cast his gaze about, looking for an escape route, but he had work to do and Elias was no help at all, and any battle against Sasha James was a losing battle. He let out a heavy sigh.

“Well, do what you will and be quick about it, I have a fresh stack of Gertrude’s statements to record and I need you and Tim to follow up on some leads from the Blackthorn case.”

Sasha arched a brow as she set to work. “The one with the woman who keeps seeing her own face in the raw meat at the supermarket?” She held the plastic cap in her teeth as she spoke.

“The very same.” The pressure of kohl gliding over the texture of his skin felt strange, in no small part due to the fact that it was going where no eyeliner was meant to go. He idly wondered if it would irritate his face, he did have quite sensitive skin. He grimaced at the soft, oily feeling as she dragged the liner across his cheeks, and rounded his nose. 

She hummed as she took a step back, surveying her work.

“Are you quite done?” Jon asked dryly. 

“I don’t know, Tim, what do you think, am I quite done?”

Tim made a show of inspecting her work, hand on his chin, squinting his eyes. “Hmm. You could have gone further, but I appreciate your restraint, rather than avantgarde, you conjured a pillar of classicism.” He stepped back, nodding shortly, before making a grand sweeping gesture. “Welcome to the Archives, foul creature of the night. Enter if you dare.”

Jon barged passed him, beelining for his office. Sasha and Tim snickered behind them, like the infants they were. His door swung shut and he was blessedly alone, unharried, at last. He settled his things, drawing back his chair and fishing through the transcripts on his desk, eager to get to work. He dug into it with a fervor, recorder in hand as the words spilled out of him, unspooling like thread. 

He had just finished one tape and was about to begin another when a tentative rap sounded on his door.

“Yes? Come in.” He said gruffly, hackles raised, bracing himself for more childish antics.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Martin shuffled across the threshold, pushing the door aside with his hip, balancing a mug of steaming tea in one hand and some kind of sweet in the other. “Thought I heard a lull. Just doing the rounds.” He didn’t make eye contact as he drew closer.

Jon watched wordlessly as Martin bent to deposit his offering on the desk. There was something catching the light about him—something around his neck? Jon peered closer. Bolts. There were prosthetic bolts shining silver in the warm office light. Jon’s gaze dipped down to his clothes and suddenly the lightning bolt jumper clicked into place. He pulled the warm mug closer to himself, inhaling the strong, bracing scent of black tea. His fingers brushed against the treat, and his brows furrowed as he turned it round, confused by the misshapen blob of frosting on the top. Tim must have brought this from the grocery, anything Martin made was perfectly constructed, as if his baking knew that if they slouched and disappointed him, an angel would lose its wings. But, no. The blob made perfect sense when it was facing Jon.

It was a presumably chocolate cupcake with fine chocolate crumbs on top like grave soil, a ghost complete with a face mid-Boo perched on top.

“Oh no, Martin, not you too.” Jon exhaled through his nose, steepling his fingers and leaning his forehead into them.

“Not ‘me too’ what?” Martin straightened to his full—and quite frankly impressive—height. He met Jon’s gaze at last and the gentle confusion on his face slid off, replaced by wide eyes and a mouth slightly ajar.

“What?” Jon’s eyes narrowed.

“I—uh—um, didn’t expect you to get into the holiday spirit, is all.”

Jon’s brain was a loading symbol until the events of the morning clicked back into place. “Ah. I’d forgotten. Yes. Tim and Sasha harassed me on the way in. I hadn’t looked. I would rather not consider the indignity further. That bad, then?”

“Yes—well, no, I mean, you look—fine, perfect, just uh, you would hate it if you saw it I’m sure, but—you actually look quite cute.” Blush crept slowly in degrees up Martin’s face until he looked like a human hearth, glowing from within.

“Cute.” Jon said flatly.

Martin slapped a hand over his mouth much too late, trying to backtrack. “Is that what I said? I meant—” He cut off, clearly casting about for another, less vile adjective.

“If that’s all, Martin.” Jon said, taking the spade out of Martin’s hand before he could dig himself deeper.

“Right. Yes. Okay.” Martin turned on his heel, and it would not be too dramatic to say he fled the room, the knuckles of one hand pressed against his forehead as he murmured to himself. 

As soon as the door clicked shut again, Jon sank down into his chair. 

He hated Halloween.

He had more than enough of his fill of the supernatural every day at work and he did not need gaudy decorations tacked on to it. Growing up, he was fond of it—each year, his grandmother had asked him what he wanted to be and did her best to stitch it together. They lived in a neighborhood full of the elderly, so he often got things like floss and apples and raisins, but there were always a couple good houses that made up for it with a handful of pounds and full candy bars. 

But then along came Mr. Spider and he never, ever, knocked on a stranger’s door again.

He wanted to hole up in his office until the end of the day, but he had pressing leads for his assistants to follow up on, and a couple of curios he needed to re-examine. He took a steeling breath and pushed open his door. 

Tim and Sasha’s banter cut short when he strode up to him. Martin, for his part, was studiously ignoring him, hunched over the paperwork on his desk. It did not slip by him that it seemed he was reading the same lines over and over, and the pen he was “writing” with was, in fact, capped.

“Well, hello, there, boss. What can we do you for?” Tim flashed a blazing smile, baring his fake fangs to the world. Jon hadn’t noticed before, but Tim was wearing a very smartly cut black vest with a red tie. There were two black circles drawn imprecisely on his neck, and he found he was not Sasha’s first victim of the day. 

“I need you to—what are you giggling at, Sasha?”

“Sorry, sir, it’s just hard to take you seriously at the moment.”

He arched a brow, unamused.

Which only made Sasha’s soft laughter evolve into a cackle appropriate to her attire.

“Oh, please let me take a picture.” She begged.

“Absolutely not. If you’re quite done, I need you,” he turned back to Tim, “to try to track down the mother from the Wimberly statement, and you,” back to Sasha, “to go to artefact storage and find the ‘cursed’ cleaver, then crosscheck it with the one mentioned in the Blackthorn and Chamberlain statements.” 

“Which cursed cleaver? We’ve seven.” 

“Number three.” 

She nodded swiftly, a smile still playing about her lips, as she headed for the elevator to the lower level. Tim clicked through several tabs on his browser, leafed through the papers messed about on his desk, snagged one, and picked up the corded phone. 

“And Martin.”

Martin sat up straight as if a shock had run the length of his spine. Jon tried and failed to not notice it was very fitting for his costume of choice.

“Sir?”

“I want you to look into the Clover meatpacking factory, the one that burned down a few decades ago.”

“The one where the—the skeletons went a bit funny?”

“Yes, the one where the shift workers were found all tangled up in each other, integrated with bovine bones and the skull of a steer. Unless there’s another ‘funny’ meatpacking factory disaster you can think of?” 

“Nossir. Right on it.” Martin said quickly, fingers immediately tapping away.

Jon wandered back into the refuge of his office.

He recorded several more statements before checking back in with his assistants.

“Progress?” He asked succinctly. 

“Couldn’t get ahold of the mother.” Tim said. “She’s set up in an assisted living facility.”

Jon’s brow crinkled. “She seemed perfectly coherent in the statement, and she wasn’t that old.”

“Yes, well, once they found her with her eyes in her hands and no tongue, it was assumed she’d need a little help round the home.” Tim grimaced.

“Oh.” Jon’s brows leapt to meet his hairline. “Right. Well. That, hm, certainly falls in line with the, uh, previously expressed concerns. Martin?”

“One of the shift workers from the accident—he had an Etsy, as it were, where he sold hand sculpted figurines.”

“That’s very nice, Martin. As much as I appreciate local craftsmanship, I was hoping for something along the lines of useful.”

“Everything listed was humanoid figures with cow heads, on all fours. They started having too many legs. They were all listed as self portraits.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t I ever get the cool centipede cow sculpture cases?” Tim complained.

Jon shook his head, refusing to engage. “Alright, then, Sash—Where’s Sasha?”

Tim and Martin looked at each other. Tim shrugged.

“Haven’t seen her since she went to storage. Assumed she was taking her precious time.”

Jon chewed at his lip, peering over at Sasha’s workspace.

“Well, that can’t be.”

“Hm?”

“The statements I asked her to check are lying on her desk.”

“Hm.”

“Alright. One of you go check in on her.”

Tim tapped his nose. “Not I.”

Martin sighed. “I hate it down there. It’s so cold and it doesn’t matter how many layers you wear.”

“Exactly.” Tim shot a finger gun in his direction. “Thanks Marty.”

Jon half hoped that Martin would put up a fight and was disproportionately miffed when he didn’t. He watched the man slink off, resigned to his fate. He half sighed, and retreated to his office. There were plenty of old files to resuscitate in the meantime while he waited for his assistants’ reports. 

He lost time among Gertrude’s files, which were a time capsule of organizational inadequacy. When he looked up, he noted over an hour had passed. He pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. Strange, that none of the others had come in with an update. He glanced at the empty mug on his desk, a ring at the bottom. Martin hadn’t come in to deliver afternoon tea.

He walked into the main archival office, casting his gaze about. No one. All the desks were empty. It felt like gravity itself pulled his face into a frown. It was quite like his team to slack off, but never all at the same time. He checked the break room, next. There was an open container of what appeared to be leftovers, forgotten, on the counter. Water sat stagnant in the kettle. A half-full plastic cup of the pumpkin cider Sasha had brought sat abandoned. 

He heaved a sigh.

“Did I miss the rapture or something?” He muttered aloud to the silent room. “Tim would say that’s just like me, missing an apocalypse while my nose is buried in a book.” 

The lights flickered overhead and he looked up at them disapprovingly, as if they were misbehaving children. 

“Well, I’m sure they’ll turn up after they’re through with whatever unprofessional nonsense they’re mixed up in. Should’ve just cross-checked the statements myself if I wanted it done well and done swiftly.” He groused as he made his way out the door.

The lights in the main room flickered, and then went out altogether.

“Bloody hell.” He closed his eyes, slowly reopening them as they adjusted. “The building’s falling apart. I keep telling Elias he needs to schedule maintenance.” He nabbed a torch from his office and on second thought, grabbed his cardigan and pulled it on efficiently. Martin was right, artefact storage was always cold no matter what you wore, but no sense not playing all the cards he had.

He swung his torch in front of him, making his way to the stairwell that spiraled down into the temperature-controlled storage level. A soft anxiety built to a keening as he walked down the steps, light bouncing gently as he went.

“Sasha? Tim?....Martin?” He called in quick succession. 

No answer.

“This better not be some juvenile Halloween prank.” He called out. Whenever they got it in their minds to be nuisances, it was fairly innocuous. Nothing like taking measures to cause a power outage or a blackout. 

He braced his hand against the heavy door that led to artefact storage. He leaned on it a moment as a chill ran down his spine like the feeling of a shower of so many spider feet cascading across his flesh. With that pretty image, his unease grew into dread. 

“Best get on with it, then.” He pressed the heavy handle down, and entered the room. 

“Did you hear--?”

“Was that?”

“ _The door_.”

Jon didn’t realize how used to the eerie quiet he’d gotten until it was broken. A figure rounded the corner at full tilt and Jon nearly dropped his torch. He made to exit the room only to discover the heavy door had drifted perilously close to shut.

“Wait! Jon! Don’t let it—”

The door closed with a metallic noise of finality.

“Don’t let it shut.” The voice, now clearly belonging to Tim, whispered.

“Tim? My god, what are you doing down here in the dark? Why did you run at me like a crazed man?”

“The door, Jon.” Tim said, shoulders slumping.

“And what about it?” He reached a hand blindly back, feeling for the handle. He pushed down on it.

It didn’t budge.

“Hold on.” He put all his weight into it.

Not even a centimetre.

Tim exhaled a drawn out breath. 

“Yeah. Can you get that light out of my eyes now?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Jon lowered the torch, directing it toward the cement floor.

“Tim?” Sasha walked into the halo of light, closely followed by Martin.

“Jon!” Martin breathed.

“Don’t get too excited, the door’s shut again.”

The other two let out wordless sounds of dismay.

Jon squinted. “What are you all doing down here?”

“I came looking for that cleaver—dreadful thing, by the way, and yes, it’s the same one in both statements—and the door locked behind me. I tried banging away for twenty minutes, then just sat down and figured someone would look after me eventually.”

Jon turned a questioning look to Martin.

He shrugged sheepishly. “I pulled the door shut behind me before she could explain.”

And that left Tim.

He shrugged, unrepentant. “I thought they were having fun without me.”

“And no one thought to call or text me?” Jon’s frown deepened as he realized he was now trapped as well.

Tim scoffed.

“Really, Jon?” Sasha asked. “Of course we did. But you know how patchy reception gets down here.”

“So now what?” Martin asked, fiddling with his hands nervously.

“No one’s going to be here until the morning.” Jon didn’t think he could frown harder, but clearly he didn’t know the depths of his talents. 

“Fucking hell.” Tim said. “I had a party to go to.”

“I think there are more important things to worry about than missing a bunch of adults playing make believe.” Jon said dryly. 

“Rude, Jonathan.”

“True, Timothy.”

“Alright, alright.” Sasha, ever the voice of reason. “We’ll have to make the best of it. Let’s go back to the sitting area and we’ll have a think.” 

They all trailed after her deeper into the storage room, where there was a small sitting space made up of a couple of chairs, a low table, and a now useless end table with a reading lamp. This is where they went to pore over tomes and examine small artefacts with magnifying glasses. It was the only space in the room that wasn’t devoid of warmth, at least aesthetically. 

“God, I hate this place.” Sasha murmured to herself as she sank into one of the chairs. “Glad you have the light, at least, Jon. We’ve been using a torch app for the last hour.”

Tim sat at her feet. Martin glanced uncertainly at Jon. 

He sighed, bone deep. “You take the chair, Martin. I’ll sit on the floor.”

“But, Jon—your back.” 

A soft twinge ran through his heart. He felt both touched and uncomfortable that Martin remembered he had chronic back pain, which only worsened hunching over statements day in and out. 

“I insist.” He said, sinking to the carpet, spacing himself as far from Tim and Martin as possible in the intimate space. 

“Well.” Jon said.

“Well.” Sasha agreed.

“So grateful to be stuck down here with such riveting conversationalists.” Tim deadpanned, pulling a flask from his vest pocket.

“Is that--?” Martin asked.

“Alcohol? Oh, absolutely.” Tim took a swig. “I was saving this for the party, but y’know, now I won’t get to be playing dress up tonight.” He tossed a heatless glance at Jon.

“Ooh.” Sasha said, reaching over Tim’s shoulder. “Sharing is caring.” 

Tim passed the flask up. Sasha took a sip of it, shook her head, and drank some more. “God, Tim. That’s potent.”

“What is it?” Martin asked. Jon glanced up and saw the curious tilt to the other man’s head.

“Why, you looking to get in on the action?” Tim asked, a mischievous bent to his lips.

“Only if it’s good.”

Jon’s eyebrows ticked up as Martin spoke. He’d never taken Martin to be the partying type. He always seemed on the fringe of things.

“It is.” Sasha assured, handing the flask across the table. 

Martin almost spluttered. Tim and Sasha snickered.

“Holy hell, Stoker.” Martin gasped.

“Too strong for you, Marty?”

There was a brief silence as Martin took another swig. “Not at all, but god, warn a guy.”

“What about you, boss-man?” 

Jon startled a little as Tim redirected his attention to him.

“No thank you.” He replied crisply.

Tim’s smile only grew. “Alright, old man. I won’t pressure you. You’ll probably not like it much to be around us completely sober, though.”

“Oh, I know. I do it all the time.”

“Ooh.” Sasha laughed.

“That hurts me right in my heart place, Jon.” Tim said, mock wounded.

Jon scoffed, waving him off. “By all means, continue the festivities.”

“You’re absolutely on it, Jon.” Tim clapped his hands. “I had a date with a truly resplendent veterinarian tonight, but no use crying over spilled margaritas, eh? And if I must be stuck with you lot, I have to appreciate the fact we are in an actual episode of Scooby-Doo. I simply cannot abide us wasting this atmosphere.”

“What are you proposing?” Sasha asked playfully.

“We have a torch don’t we? It’d be a right shame if we didn’t tell some spooky stories.”

Jon scoffed. “What could any of us have to say that isn’t ripped from a statement? Or is any kind of scary compared to a statement?”

“I could tell the one where the crotchety boss who is thirty going on a hundred gets eaten by a monster in the dank pits of his nasty Archives. It’s a monster that only eats crotchety bosses.”

Sasha giggled, which set Martin to giggling. 

“Are you—you can’t possibly be drunk already.” An edge of panic crept into his voice. There were few worse things he could imagine than being subjected to babysitting his drunk coworkers in the black silence of artefact storage.

And that’s the story of how, several rounds of swigs later, Jon was forced to babysit his drunk coworkers.

“Ooh. Y’know.” Sasha slurred. “We should play a game.”

“A game? Like what?” Martin asked. His voice sounded a little dreamy.

“I’ve got one.” Tim said, and the impish confidence in his voice raised Jon’s hackles.

“Yeah?” Sasha encouraged.

“Seven. Minutes. In. Heaven.”

Sasha slapped at his shoulder. “You absolute heathen. No way.”

Jon’s entire body relaxed. Oh thank God. 

“—that’s way too long.” Sasha continued. “And I don’t want to wander off with anyone in this nightmare of a room. And I definitely don’t want to hear seven minutes of someone else snogging in the dark.”

“Okay get this.” Tim held up a hand. “Seven. Seconds. In. Heaven.”

“There you go.” Sasha held up the flask in a little toast.

“What say you, Marty?” 

Jon was desperately hoping ‘Marty’ said hell no. He thought witnessing his coworkers getting pissed was the worst thing that could happen tonight, but he should have known, working in the Archives, that things could always, always get worse. 

“Y’know what?” Martin said. “Let’s do it.”

Jon whipped around to look up at Martin. What was this side of him that he never dreamed someone like Martin could possess? A side where he sounded...entirely at ease, no bumbling, almost…confident. 

Sasha clapped her hands.

“Perfect.” Tim said. “We don’t have a proper bottle, so what we’re gonna do is, we’ll each spin the flask, and then whoever it lands on….we snog.”

“Wait, Tim.” Sasha said.

“Mmm?”

“How will we tell the difference between you and me?”

“Oh.” Tim shuffled to the side so there was more room between him, the chair Sasha sat in, and the table. “Better?”

Sasha nodded.

“Alright. I’ll go first.” Tim set the flask down on the carpet, and spun it about. 

It landed on Sasha.

“No tongue.” She warned as Tim turned to her and she leaned down.

Jon felt the blood drain from his face. Were they really going to go through with this?

Apparently so, because there they were, kissing. 

“Ow!” Sasha leaned back, hand going to her lip. “Teeth, Tim.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Forgot I was wearing these.” He chuckled softly.

“Yeah alright, calm down count drunk-ula.” Sasha placed an affectionate hand in his hair, looking over the top of his head at Martin. “You keep the time, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It was a very mortifying seven seconds, to say the least. Jon was a pendulum swinging between curiosity and disgust. Was this…fun? He’d seen several coming of age films so he was not unaware of the concept of the game, but Chrissake, they were all adults here, in a creepy basement, in a creepy building. It did not seem to be an appropriate situation in which to snog platonically or otherwise.

“That’s seven seconds, guys.” Martin said. 

Sasha and Tim apparently lost the concept of time.

Martin coughed. 

They pulled away, laughing. Tim rested his head in Sasha’s lap and she ran her hand through his hair. “Okay, get up you lump, it’s my turn.”

“Y’know it occurred to me…” Tim began as he turned away, still grabbing at Sasha’s hand. 

“A danger to us, I’m sure.” 

“Shhh.” Tim reached back to place a finger against Sasha’s lips. He missed. When everyone but the acutely sober Jon was through giggling, Tim tried again. “With our limited options, we’re all just going to end up kissing each other eventually anyways.”

“What are you suggesting, Timothy Stoker?” Sasha asked.

“Well, let’s just everyone kiss everyone.” He shrugged. “We’re all pals, here.”

“For the record, I am not anyone’s pal here.” Jon said blandly.

“Pfff.” Sasha huffed. “Keep telling yourself that, bucko.” 

Martin snorted. “ _Bucko_. I’m sorry, are you a 90’s American dad? Shall I anticipate you at the little league?”

“Oh, fuck off, Martin.” Sasha said without an ounce of venom.

“Back to the matter at hand.” Tim said gravely, spreading his arms wide.

“Oh, whatever.” Sasha said, flapping a hand vaguely. “I’m game.”

Both Tim and Sasha settled heavy gazes on Martin.

“Alright, alright, fine.”

They cheered.

Jon’s jaw fell ajar. He resisted the urge to check his pulse and see if mayhap he had died some time ago and was in Hell, the actual brick and brimstone Hell. What other explanation was there for having to endure the drunken tomfoolery of his assistants? This was an HR nightmare. 

“C’mere Martin.” Sasha leaned forward, and in the cramped space, Jon made a quick getaway before Martin could mirror her, scooting to the side. 

“Oh.” Martin said, presumably as their lips met.

Jon tilted his head away pointedly as Tim loudly counted down their seven seconds as if it were New Year’s Eve or perhaps a space shuttle launch.

“Okay my turn.” Tim said, extending grabby hands towards Martin.

For some reason this was the opposite of his reaction to Sasha and Martin—Jon, perversely, he thought, couldn’t keep his gaze away. 

The two men met in the middle, Martin coming to his knees. Jon tilted his head as Tim’s hand buried into Martin’s curls and Martin put a firm hand on Tim’s jaw. There was none of the sputtering shyness he was used to, none of the clumsy hands and shaking speech. None of even the blushing warmth he’d witnessed kissing Sasha. Was tipsy Martin just a being made up of liquid courage or was this just a dimension of him Jon had never guessed? Did he seem so at ease because he’d…Tim’d…they’d done it before? Why was this the kiss that captured his attention so thoroughly? What was the stone in his stomach and the muttering of his heart?

“ _Teeth_ , Tim.” Martin exclaimed, indignant.

Both of them pulled apart laughing.

“Right!” Sasha exclaimed. “Tim you are banned for being a menace.”

“That hasn’t stopped me before and it shan’t stop me now.”

“Are you quite done, then?” Jon asked dryly. 

“Was this a scary enough story for you, boss-man?” Tim jibed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Downright haunting.” Jon deadpanned.

Sasha sighed audibly. “Tired.” She sank further into the armchair, curling up in on herself. 

Tim checked his dimly ticking timepiece. “Ah, yes, I’d hope. We’ve been down here hours it’s almost one in the morning.” He yawned, as if he was only waiting to have evidence of how late it was before he allowed himself to be exhausted. 

It was only a matter of minutes before they were both blessedly asleep, though Jon could have done without the droning of their snores. He felt Martin shift behind and above him.

“Jon.”

“Yes, Martin?” He felt achingly aware of the intimacy of them being the last ones standing of the party. 

“Would you like the armchair? I won’t be able to sleep like this, anyhow, you might as well be comfortable and try to get some rest.”

Jon shook his head. “Thank you, no. I doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep down here, either. Quite frankly it’s unsettling and I don’t think even the power of liquor could get me around that.”

Martin sighed, a soft, drawn out thing. “I suppose it’s the two of us against the night then, huh.”

“I suppose it is.” 

They lapsed into an easy silence, comfortable except for the heightened awareness of the distinctly uncomfortable silence of Artefact Storage. Jon was deeply aware in every fibre of his being that there were dozens of things in here that could be used to kill them mundanely, and several more that could potentially do it paranormally. 

“This really is one for the books.” Martin said eventually, causing Jon to flinch. 

“Quite.” Jon replied, bemused. “What shall we call this story? ‘Night of the Living Assistants Who Can’t Keep Their Hands Off of Each Other for Some Reason?” 

Martin huffed. “Too long.”

“What was that all about, anyways?” Jon gestured vaguely forward, where Sasha’s arm dangled over Tim’s shoulder, who was slumped gracelessly against the plush chair.

Martin hummed. Jon could still hear the alcohol buzzing softly through his veins. “Just a bit of nonsense, really.”

“Is this….is this what you all do when I’m not around?” 

Martin let out a harsh bark of laughter. “God, no. I mean, Sasha and Tim have something going on, I think.” He paused. “Tim and I had a go of it awhile back, didn’t stick.”

Jon let out what could charitably be called a startled noise and could uncharitably be called a squeak. 

“You alright?” Martin patted him on the shoulder with a fumbling hand in the dark. 

“You and Tim?” He repeated, incredulous.

“Like I said, didn’t last. He’s poly and I did my best but I’m just not cut out for sharing, I suppose. Still mates with a couple of his partners, though, lovely people.” A pause. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Not my business to tell.”

Jon didn’t say anything. There weren’t words for what he was feeling or thinking, and like Martin said, none of it was his business. 

“I’m sorry.” Martin broke his train of thought, which was just as well, because it was a smoking, chugging thing going relentlessly in a circle.

“Whatever for?”

“You were probably deeply uncomfortable this whole time and we were too pissed to care much about it.”

“Oh. Well. Yes. Let’s please not do this again.” 

“Pinkie Swear.” Jon felt Martin’s hand dangling at his side, pinkie extended. It was…charming, in an open, pure, childish way. Jon linked his own pinkie, and felt a rush of warmth in his cheeks at the contact. It had been a long time since he had casually touched someone. He was rather used to intermittent snuggling with Georgie and then truly astounding varieties of pain resultant of his job, but entirely out of his job description.

“Jon, you have really nice hair, did you know?”

Jon gave a little jolt at the unfamiliar weight of a hand in his hair. 

“I, uh, no Martin, I hadn’t considered. I suppose it is sufficient.” 

Martin snorted. “Always so…what’s the word? Formal? No. You’re so funny Jon and you don’t even mean to be.” He sighed, fingertips gently twisting the ends of Jon’s hair. “And adorable, too.”

Jon’s breath caught.

“Hmm, did I say that aloud?” Martin wondered. “Hey, Jon, did I say you’re adorable?”

“Y-yes Martin, you did.”

“Oh, good, because it’s true. I think I’ll regret that tomorrow though, when my head’s not as fuzzy.”

“I, uh, will not think less of you for it?” Jon said uncertainly. When had he started wanting to handle Martin with more care? It must have been the guilt from when Prentiss had stalked him at his flat. The way he’d discounted Martin—well, always, if he was being honest, but particularly about his supernatural encounter—and left him to rot in his apartment for two weeks.

“That’s sporting of you.”

They lapsed once again into silence, punctuated only by their steady breathing and the soft sound of Martin’s fingers running lazily through his hair. It occurred to Jon he should put a stop to this, that it was unprofessional, and quite frankly, embarrassing how much he was soothed by it. But if this was all that a truly pissed Martin was asking of him, he felt it was an acceptable concession. 

Despite his best efforts, he found himself drifting off, eyes struggling to stay open, fighting a hopeless battle. 

The next time his eyes fluttered open, he could tell some time had passed. There were several developments, such as Martin’s hand being a motionless weight on the top of his head, and his other arm sliding slowly down his own. The skin of his hand prickled strangely, causing goosebumps on his own. 

“Martin?” He could abide having his hair played with, but this was really too much. “Martin, will you please stop that? You’re cold, and regardless, I don’t like it.”

Martin only snored.

Martin only snored and the hand crept lower, lower, lower than Martin’s should be able to reach, low enough to twine long, thin fingers through his own.

Jon yelped and scrambled backwards into Tim, sending the torch spinning across the floor. 

“What the fuck?” Tim asked, tone thick with accusation and sleep as he pushed at Jon. 

The hand slowly crept toward them, punctuated by the harsh light of the torch.

“What the _fuck_.” Tim repeated, now fully awake and allowing Jon to pull him to his feet. Around them, Sasha and Martin bolted awake. 

“Martin I need you to come over to us right now.” Jon said in a slow, deliberate, absolutely panicked voice.

“Oh, god, oh god, something’s here and it’s by me isn’t it.” Martin closed his eyes.

“Jesus.” Sasha uttered as she caught sight of the creeping figure.

“Come on now, Marto.” Tim said, gruff and commanding. “Just walk slow and don’t look back.”

Martin sucked in heavy gasps of air, clearly trying not to panic, and slowly, slowly rose from the chair, taking small, shaking steps forward.

Whatever the thing was, it was surprisingly alright with Martin joining the others out of its immediate reach. All of them released a tightly held breath when Martin made it to them, collapsing into Sasha’s waiting arms. 

“So, uh, what exactly is that, d’you think, Jon?” Sasha asked.

“I can’t really—I can’t get a good look at it, but I know it’s got quite long arms and quite sharp nails.” 

Their questions were answered to an extent when the thing barreled toward them in the fractured light. 

It was a mass of limbs. Arms, to be precise. Arms and arms and a couple more arms, a ceaseless mass of flesh with no discernible features beyond fingers and nails and a core of meat. 

None of the arms looked like they came from the same being. 

Tim and Jon let out a string of loud curses as Martin squeaked and Sasha screamed. Sasha dove forward in a feral lunge before turning back. They scrambled back towards the entrance, the light from the torch slowly abandoning them the further they ran. They bumped into each other, the shelving, and god knows what else at least it wasn’t _flesh_.

They ran until they were at the entrance, where they could run no more, trapped mice squealing. They let their backs slide down the walls and door, heaving for oxygen. Sasha thrust something at Tim. 

“What’s…this?” He gasped, feeling around in the dark.

“Is that--?” Jon cut off.

“Cleavers one and six.” She breathed. “Didn’t want to risk using three, all things considered.” 

“You brilliant, insane woman.” Tim said appreciatively. 

“Is it—do you think it followed us?” Martin asked, voice an octave higher than usual.

“I don’t—I don’t hear anything.” Jon said cautiously.

It was true. Artefact Storage was back to being quiet as a skeleton in its casket. 

It remained that way for the next ten minutes. Thirty minutes. Hour.

“So what exactly deters an eldritch mass of—of arms—from hunting down its trapped prey?” Sasha asked, dragging a hand through her hair, fist in rigor mortis around the handle of the cleaver.

“Skipped arm day?” Tim replied blithely. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“I’m just glad it’s gone.” Jon could feel Martin trembling next to him. “…Is it gone?”

“I think so. I hope so.” Jon amended. He wished he could be more optimistic, more reassuring, but in fact, he was not a liar. 

“I’m never going to sleep again.” Tim despaired. 

“I’m never going to look at my arms the same way again.” Sasha muttered. 

They sat like that, on edge, until something shifted in the room. It was a feeling much like a cat sensing a storm. Something had changed in the atmosphere, and they were not okay, and they were not safe, but their muscles unclenched just a bit.

The door opened, and Martin and Tim fell backward into a painfully bright stairwell.

“Oh, hello. I’d wondered where you lot had gotten off to.” Elias said, gazing down on them with a tone that was almost cheery, but off, like a musical note gone flat. “I’m sure you’re aware there was a power outage. Have you been here all night?”

The others looked at each other in a daze, slowly getting to their feet.

“The door wouldn’t open.” Jon said slowly. 

“Curious. There’s a key right here.” Elias pointed at a shimmer on the ground, the metallic glint of what was, indeed, a key. 

Sasha picked it up, staring at it, starkly shining in contrast to her dark palm. She looked at Elias wordlessly. 

“My.” Elias said. “Well, what’s done is done. I’ve brought some leftover scones from the library staff’s murder mystery book club yesterday afternoon. Help yourself, they’re in the break room. Decadent cider, by the way, Sasha, thank you.”

He began to ascend the stairs as the others continued to gaze dumbly after him. He paused midway up, hand on the railing.

“I guess you got your scary story, after all, Mister Stoker.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tag yourself, I'm Sasha With a Cleaver & Martin's Jumper.
> 
> Did Jon get marked by the Flesh by hand holding? He absolutely did, friends and family.


End file.
